Recompense
by Simon920
Summary: Dick is injured in an encounter with a drunk driver. He decides to sue.


Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

My apologies to any lawyers who may read this. Any and all mistakes are mine.

**Recompense**

That was it. Simple. Over. Finished. The end.

His knee was shattered, the bones destroyed, the cartilage was gone, the ligaments and tendons torn beyond repair.

Period.

No appeal.

The doctor who had been brought in from Europe, the last specialist who might have held out some chance that he could recover from the crash had done everything he could and then had told him, as kindly as possible, that was all that could be done.

Yes, he could expect some more improvement as time went on and assuming that he continued with the physical therapy, but to expect to come back more than another ten percent, at the most, was simply unrealistic. The great bulk of whatever recovery he would have had already occurred and he simply needed to understand that the body had certain limits beyond which it was unable to heal no matter how great the will or advanced the technology.

If this was the first doctor or even just the tenth, he would have thanked the man then looked for the next one, the one who would have the answer or the procedure or the special exercise that would make it work well enough for him to continue. That wouldn't happen now and he knew it. He'd been to every specialist he could find, every one that had even the slightest chance of succeeding and he knew he was out of options. He'd even consulted with Atlantean and Kandorian specialists, but every singe one of them had agreed with the surface medical experts. There was simply nothing more they could add to what had already been done for him.

He'd continue with the therapy and go as far as he could with it but no matter how he looked at it, there was still one single bottom line:

Dick Grayson was the one who'd been hurt, but it was Nightwing's career that was over.

He could, he supposed, still do some of what he used to do so easily. He could still do all the lab work and all the basic deduction and reasoning. There was nothing preventing him from consulting and even going to the scenes of the crimes. He could keep on making collars and train newer, younger cops and crime-fighters. He could even use the tremendous knowledge he'd accumulated over the years the way he'd been famous for to connect all the dots of a crime when no one else could even see that there were any dots to be connected.

But he couldn't fly.

The nights of swooping from building to building, of dropping soundlessly from nowhere to land within an inch of where he wanted, of turning the quad just because it felt so damn good were over.

Gone.

Never to return.

And the worst part? The thing that made it that much worse was the looks on his friend's faces. They knew it was pretty much over for him and he couldn't stand knowing they felt sorry for him. Seeing his immediate friends was bad enough Roy and Donna, Garth, Wally, but when he saw the look on Kal's face—damn. He hadn't said anything at first other than small talk about how well he looked and how glad he was to hear Bruce had caught the drunk who'd blindsided his bike. Then he'd just stood there tongue-tied for a few moments and finally came out with "You know, there's still a lot you'll be able to do."

And Kal was right; there was a lot he could still do. He could do all kinds of things.

But he couldn't fly.

Okay, so what was he going to actually do now? He still had his job as a Bludhaven cop, though with a stiff leg he couldn't do anything active. He could transfer to special crimes and maybe, in a couple of years, make his way up to detective. That was a reasonable option and one he was seriously thinking about. He'd still be helping out and he'd probably solve a bunch of cases. He could do that.

He could write off either the Outsiders or the Titans. They were equal opportunity employers, but you had to be able to do the job. Forget that.

Barbara had called and he'd been really glad to hear from her. After she'd dumped him he was afraid that it would be a really long time before either one of them picked up the phone, but a three week stay in the hospital and another six months in a rehab center seemed to have softened her quite a lot. She given him a pep talk and gone on about how it wasn't the end of the world—it might seem like that right now, but he'd see. In a few months or so he'd realize how much he could still do and he'd start to feel better. She knew because she'd been there herself and she knew what he was going through. It would get better. It would. Maybe not his leg, but his spirits would and he'd find out that he was still the best detective in the world—okay, maybe second best, but still. And didn't Interpol tell him that if he ever wanted to change his MO, they'd like to get the first call? Nightwing may be out of the vigilante business, but Dick Grayson still had a hell of a sharp brain for this sort of thing. A call from her Dad would do the trick, or from Kal or any one of the Justice League. They'd be happy to do it, just say the word. Dick Grayson would be welcomed in any police department on the planet.

Then he asked if maybe they could have dinner one night? There had been a hesitation before she'd said 'of course' and he knew that though she felt badly for him, she didn't feel badly enough to come back to him as anything more than a concerned friend.

Not being able to easily manage the stairs up to his third floor apartment, he—reluctantly—told Clancy that though he'd pay the rent for now, he'd be staying with his father for a while until his leg was better. Clance had offered to let him swap apartments when one of the tenants had moved out of the first floor back two bedroom, but it would be too complicated to deal with Dr. Fledermaus and all the extra stuff he'd added. Better to just pay the two rents and cross his fingers for now.

So he'd moved back to the Manor.

He could use the elevator to get up to his old room and he had the use of the cave's gym for his PT.

It was while he was going through his exercise routine for the millionth time, trying for just a few more degrees of movement when, for some reason, it occurred to him. He'd been the victim of a drunk driver. The other driver had been completely at fault and the consequence was that now his career and, when you came down to it. The rest of his life was compromised.

The other driver was drunk. She'd been driving with a revoked license and in violation of probation. In fact, this was the third violation she'd racked up in less than two months. She'd run a red light, she was speeding, she was drunk and she had a suspended license and now this was her fifth known accident, including one that had killed a three-year-old. On top of that, she'd fled the scene. Her punishment? Her license was lifted for an additional three years and her probation was extended for another five. Oh, and she was sentenced to a hundred hours of community service, which she'd never done.

A slap on the wrist.

Sure, he'd known all this since it happened, but the more he thought about it, the more he lived with his new reality, the angrier he became. And she was still driving—that was the thing that really burned him. She'd been picked up just this last weekend running another stop sign, drunk again.

He wanted to nail her. He wanted her stopped. He wanted it so bad he could almost taste it.

There were only a couple of times in his life he'd taken a case personally; when his parents were murdered, when Barbara was shot by Joker, maybe—maybe—when Bane broke Bruce's back but this—_this_ had ended life as he knew it and he wanted to be compensated.

He didn't care about the money, he had more money than he could spend in his life, but it wasn't about money. It wasn't even about revenge. It wasn't. This was about stopping someone who had ruined lives and still walked around all day and slept in their own bed at night.

It wasn't right.

Vivian Smith. That was the woman. She was youngish, twenty-six, and she was a party girl who lived off some family trust. She wasn't in Bruce's, or even Dick's league financially but she didn't need to work and so she didn't. She went to clubs, she shopped, she got her face in the columns and sometimes in the tabloids. She was last year's 'it' girl, though she was starting to get a little long in the tooth to carry that off much longer. He vaguely knew her from the society circuit, though she wasn't really welcomed by Bruce's circle, considered to tacky too put up with. She was an embarrassment to her family and lived an empty, aimless life, going from party to club to vacation; running through men at the speed of sound.

Enough.

This time, for once, she'd be held accountable.

* * *

"You can't be serious. This will compromise all of us if you go through with it. What the hell are you thinking?"

"Back off, Bruce. I'm filing as Dick Grayson, Nightwing won't enter into it."

"And how to you intend to keep the press from adding two and two?"

"Dick Grayson was the one she hit with her car. Nightwing doesn't operate in Gotham and has no reason to be here. There's nothing to add together. Besides, he's an urban myth, he isn't real—hadn't you heard?"

Bruce threw his napkin on the table. He understood Dick's feeling, but this was a minefield. "And what are you going to base your 'ruined potential' on? Dick Grayson isn't an athlete."

Dick gave him an incredulous look. "Excuse me? 'Flying Graysons', ring a bell?"

"So a dozen years ago you were a circus performer."

"Who just bought Haley's Circus. Plus I still have the quad—I threw it the week before the accident in a regular workout when they had that gig down in Philly and I filled in after Marcel dislocated his shoulder."

Bruce paused, thinking. Dick had a point and, frankly, after the way the Smith girl acted at his last party, he was just as happy to see her receive some long delayed payback. "Fine. Use Wayne Corp's legal department if you want. Just make sure no one makes a connection."

* * *

It was a media circus, as expected. Vivian dressed for court every day. He clothes were conservative navy blues and blacks, though the skirt lengths made sitting an exercise in flexibility. Her hairstyles received inches in the style sections every day and the gossip blogs took sides—the hunk vs. the heiress. There were tears the day the judge decreed, in no uncertain terms, that her pet ferret wasn't allowed in court. And no, he didn't care that the animal was leashed and dressed by Gucci.

Dick availed himself of Bruce's legal team, as offered, and they brought in medical experts to testify about the severity of his injuries and the long-term implications. They brought in his Captain from the Bludhaven Police Department who testified that Officer Grayson's injury was a blow to the precinct. Not only did it remove one of their top young men from the streets where he was desperately needed, but he'd been making major inroads with the local teenagers. Gang membership was markedly down in his patrol areas because of his efforts. They brought in Maxwell Haley, manager of Haley's Circus, to testify how having the owner unable to personally be onsite was a problem. The defense team pointed out that he could still talk on the phone and use a computer he replied "It ain't the same".

Mr. Grayson testified, in part, by showing some home movies of the level of gymnastics and acrobatics he'd been capable of before the accident, both in a gym on apparatus and on a trapeze in performance.

He spoke, with intelligence and articulation, about the impact on his police work.

He needed a cane to walk.

When placed on the stand, Miss Smith cried, needed a recess, cried again and court was postponed for two days while she collected herself.

* * *

"Alfred, you can't agree with Dick's decision to go through with this, can you?"

"On the contrary, sir. I wholeheartedly support his decision. The young lady, and I use the term rather loosely, has crossed far too many lines of decency and courtesy of late and I fear she deserves a somewhat sharp reprimand from the legal system."

"Yes, but it's dragging on and the publicity…"

"Is minor in comparison to what the young master has endured at her hands."

"I suppose."

"Would you care for the Chardonnay this evening, sir?"

* * *

The trial took a full two weeks to complete. Both sides brought in a number of expert witnesses, questioned the two litigants in detail and some redundancy. The defense did everything it could think of to discredit Officer Grayson, cast dispersions on his motives for bringing suit and strongly insinuated that it all went back to a jilted suitor seeking revenge. This, as well as the other farfetched allegations, were soundly disproved and held so little credence that the judge admonished the defense team that no more wasting of the court's time would be tolerated without substantive cause.

Finally both sides rested and retired while the jury deliberated.

Dick spent the time waiting at the Manor. It was more private and better guarded than his apartment in Bludhaven and was simply an easier place to be. He had the gym for his ongoing PT, he had Alfred to tend to everything else and his friends could visit without the press harassing them.

They got the call early on the second day. Dressing quickly, Dick and Bruce met their legal team in the hallway just outside the courtroom. Nodding to one another, they went in, Dick sitting at the table with his defense team, Vivian holding a lace handkerchief in her hand and looking nervous.

The jury entered and took their seats. The judge followed, all rose as he climbed up to the bench and settled down. He turned towards the foreman, asking if they had reached a verdict. They had.

On the first count of reckless driving? Guilty.

On the second count of driving while intoxicated? Guilty.

On the third count of driving with a suspended license? Guilty.

On the fourth count of violation of probation? Guilty.

On the fifth count of leaving the scene of an accident? Guilty.

On the sixth count of assault with a deadly weapon? Guilty.

On the seventh charge of hit and run? Guilty.

On the eighth charge of failure to report an accident? Guilty.

Guilty on all other and related charges.

Due to the fact that this was her fourth similar accident, Vivian was sentenced to a minimum of five years in prison without possibility of parole, the loss of her driver's license for a minimum of ten years and was ordered to pay all of Mr. Grayson's accident related expenses. These included, but were not limited to medical bills, charges for ongoing physical therapy, replacement of his customized antique Ducati motorcycle and any other costs he had or would be incurring. In addition, she was ordered to pay all of Mr. Grayson's legal expenses, compensation for his lost wages, his forced career changes and any costs regarding his circus ownership as he was no longer able to function as he had previously. The total would be in the millions.

The possibility of a future civil suit was left open.

She sobbed as she was led into the back to begin her sentence, which she was ordered to begin immediately. Her lawyers promised an appeal.

* * *

"So, are you happy with the outcome?"

An hour later they were in the study, sharing some of Thomas Wayne's best scotch.

Dick gave Bruce an even look, his disgust at the changes in his life barely visible as he drained his glass in one long swallow. "Ecstatic."

12/31/07

9


End file.
